


Affirmations

by softlyue



Series: Gifts and Requests [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-01 23:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14531271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyue/pseuds/softlyue
Summary: Freya ponders the nature of her relationship with Solas, and the ambiguity of his feelings. Small ficlet for @Freyanuris on tumblr, featuring her inquisitor, Freya Lavellan.





	1. Affirmations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Freyanuris](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Freyanuris).



It’s simple enough in daydreams, clearing paths through thick forest and untouched trails. To think of reaching out and what-if, but they are not alone here, and when her eyes wander, she schools them back. They haven’t spoken about…about this, about the…the tension, since the Fade-kiss in Fade-Haven. She wants answers, but likes the version in her daydreams, where the only answer is, “Yes.”

Sometimes his stormy eyes catch her, and Freya pretends to be engaged with the mark in her wrist instead.

It’s not until they’ve marked off a new camp, covered in gore and guts and fade-charged demon remnants that she learns subtlety, grace, are still not her strong suit.

There’s a river nearby, that’s not the trouble.

It’s the after - long after their companions have retired and it’s her turn to watch the camp - when she’s all alone and her comb gets stuck in the wet battle mess of her hair. In resolute, stubborn silence, she tries her best to work it out, but her arms are cramping and the mark pulses more when she’s tired, and now her fingers are locking and–

She almost gives up, heaves a dramatic sigh and closes her eyes and listens out to the quiet of the night.

This is not something to be distracted by. She will just put her hair up nice and high for now, and politely ask Josephine for more of that wonderful hair oil she shared when they came back from the Storm Coast the first time…

“May I…assist?”

Freya looks up, and Solas leans over her with a twitch of a bemused smile, and a sympathetic softness in his eyes. She means to protest at first, but the words don’t come as she plans. Instead, the only word on Freya’s mind spills out like a dirty secret,

“Yes.”

Solas drops down cross-legged behind her and delicately plucks the comb from her hand. Eventually, Freya lets her shoulders relax as he works through her hair, and her eyes search the forest around them for movement, threat. More than once, his fingertips graze the tip of an ear, and she feels it–the spark, the…whatever they are.

Freya wishes this was more like the daydreams.

His knuckles brush the back of her neck as he pulls the comb through the last of the tangles.

“Do you have your ribbon, still?” he asks. His voice is lower, deeper - maybe to respect the night, the quiet, or maybe…

Freya purses her lips, holds the leather cord out to him without looking. The consistent kindness from him, without progress, it’s too much. His palm rests over hers for a moment before he takes the cord. Freya glances back as he starts to separate her hair, and the cord hangs in his teeth. She quickly sits straight again, doesn’t think about it.

But, if she does…if she’s honest with herself…

If this were the Fade, he wouldn’t just be braiding her hair. Maybe, telling a story. And she’ll half-listen to the story, interested, but lost, one or two or ten words behind because she’s struck in the sound of his voice and the way he says it. Like every part of the story is something he’s found just for her, that he’s been dying to share.

Solas is silent, soothingly, behind her as he works, plaiting her hair, looser by her scalp - to prevent a headache - but tighter, more intricate, as he works through the ends.

She imagines in another life, where she’s not the constant center of attention, this is their camp, their fire alone, and she can tilt back and–

Freya’s shoulders press into his chest. Solas makes a startled, tight sound, hands pinned beneath her with his fingers wound between cord and braid.

Emerald meets admiral blue. Neither moves.

Solas swallows, then, with a throaty hum, says, “Freya are…you certain this…?”

Freya reaches up, cold fingers to his warm cheeks, pulls him closer and before she can remind herself this isn’t a daydream–

“Yes.” And, “Please.”

His face breaks in a smile, a full one, and his shoulders sag a little before he closes the too-many inches between.

The kiss is light. They both grin. She feels younger, lighter.

She’s smiling stupid, surely, and even though soon he finds reason to retire, he pockets her comb instead of giving it back, and wishes her goodnight.

“Solas?”

He stops mid-step, peers over his shoulder back at her.

“I can seek you out…later?”

There is only warmth, the barest hints of morning sunshine in the gleaming, delighted look he gives her, before he tilts his head and smiles full and wide and says,

“Yes.”


	2. Focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Freyanuris on tumblr. Freya Lavellan belongs to her.

They're lucky enough to secure camp where they have in the mountainside. It doubles the size of their patrols, keeps the wildlife away. Two soldiers down from a bear are victim enough for the Inquisition. It also means reviewing documents in private, writing back to Leliana for additional support, research needed into Venatori movement through Orlais. The nook for this camp is defensible, and inaccessible for the giants stomping about the Emerald Graves.

Anxious for rest, Dorian retires at the first glimmer of twilight. The Iron Bull leaves her to reroute the march for his men in the morning. Successfully forcing a surrender or defeat from the Freemen means access to the far north of the Graves, and hopefully, tracking down the last of Cassandra's lost, power-mad former comrad.

The sky clouds over, forecasting rain for the night, and the soldier rounding nearest their tents reminds her so.

"To look after your health, Inquisitor," she adds after, "It's cold like the Storm Coast, here in the wet. It'll chill you through."

Freya thanks her with a gentle smile, and does not remind her that once, she lived a life without Inquisition requisitions, technology, or hybrid weaves. Just family, and the aravels, everyone pressed close together to pass the night.

Oh, now  _there's_  an idea.

Solas hasn't stepped out since they made camp, agonizing over a staff uncovered in the paltry broken stone that once - according to him - had been one of the great arches of Elvhen architecture. Avoiding sleep is not a problem he has - ever, and he's usually the first to retire. But as the campfires burn around them, his silhouette is bent over the cot.

He's still studying.

Freya taps her fingernails against the canvas before she enters. She's not unwelcome, she knows this, but these are also not aravels, and this Inquisition may be hers, but the people are not. Solas' shoulders relax a little as she lets the flap fall closed behind her, but he does not move to greet her or welcome her further.

His hands ghost the artwork on the blade of the staff, long fingers delicately tracing over the engraving and filligree like he seeks to memorize it. She sits on the woven rug near him, watching. His eyes are half lidded in hyperfocus, and he's mouthing words - old words, most she doesn't know - as he goes over the runes. A magelight glimmers on the corner of the cot, where the staff is laid out. The energy that thrums off it is different, far contrasted from the weapons Dagna enchants for them. It does not sing from refined lyrium, nor does it wail with the rhyme of blood magic.

This piece is old, and yet, it is pristine.

For now, she's content to watch him marvel at it, as he attempts to coax its secrets forth.

But before she realizes, the rain is pounding on the canvas around them.

She shivers, but he doesn't notice.

"Vhenan," she calls. He hums a little note to acknowledge her as his hands move turn over the staff to inspect the other side of the blade, where precious gems glitter in the center.

Freya moves gently, a small push off the rug to her feet, featherlight footsteps toward him. He trusts her, doesn't even glance her way as she moves around him. What a  _mistake_  on his part.

She puts her arms around him, and he touches one of her hands, brings her knuckles to her lips in a kiss - a dismissive brush.

To his credit, Solas remains focused, perhaps more sharply, as she presses her lips to the back of his neck, to the warm spot where his collar dips back. His breath catches, as she pulls the fabric back a little more and flicks the tip of her tongue, just barely, to the beauty mark hiding there.

"The night is short," he says, "And I wish to...understand, before I sleep."

"Don't stop on my account," she replies, mouth moving to the back of his ear. Solas makes a sound, almost a tickle, from his throat, but while he doesn't shrug her off, he bends further over the staff, like it will put him out of her reach. So Freya shifts up to her knees, tightening the grip of one arm around his middle while the other follows his hand tracing the runes on the staff. Her fingers twine with his as she glides her lips from his pulse, up the shell of his ear in gentle, warm kisses.

He swallows, silent, like the silence might cloak him, stop her from noticing.

"It's cold out," she murmurs, planting a trail against his jaw.

"Vhenan," he mutters.

"Hm?"

"Could we..? I..." he sighs, as if the words aren't what he wants to say.

"Oh there's so much we  _could_  do." She smiles against him, he frowns.

"Freya."

"...Solas." She hasn't let go. "What does it say?"

Suddenly he's back in his shell again, and begins to explain what he's deciphered from the art and the engravings. She makes little hmm sounds, small affirmations here and there to let him know she's listening, but her lips wander again, and now, her hands do too. He shifts, to try to pull out of her grasp so he can turn the staff and finish his story.

She ducks under his arms, slots herself between him and his prize.

Grins.

"Solas."

" _Vhenan_."

She takes his hand and puts it to her cheek, turns into his palm to kiss it. His exhale stutters, not quite attraction, not fully frustration.

"And what do you see here?"

"Incorrigable," he mutters, sits still and stiff as she opens the clasps to his coat. "Freya, please..."

Thunder rumbles overhead, echoes around the tent.

Solas sighs, shakes his head in defeat. And then, he snaps his fingers. The magelight goes out. And, surely, everyone hears the delighted little squeal Freya makes when finally, he wraps his arms around her and kisses her back.


End file.
